The End of Time
A poem
A poem
Quasars and Pulsars, nebulae and dust,
black holes and brown dwarves whose outer shells have burst.
Spirals and globulars, galaxies so far
that light from them just reaching us is from a long dead star.
Drifting in this silent void whose numbers are all prime,
spinning to aphelion in the fabric of space-time.
As muons and pions approach the speed of light,
we mortals can only gaze in awe on starry nights.
The remnants of the cosmic bang, those ripples that we find,
are ghosts and clues that gravity, in passing, left behind.
As countless, nameless eons pass, and even time gets old,
all will return to quarks, and less, as entropy refolds.